Aftermath
by EGrace
Summary: What might have happened after the events of Wrapped, after Vicki completed the ritual and left Henry's condo.


Title: Aftermath

Author: Elizabeth Grace

Dated: November 2007

Environ: Blood Ties episode "Wrapped"

Categories: Drama; Angst / Supplemental Scene

Rating: "M" This short story is intended for mature audiences age 16 and older. It contains a scene of mildly explicit sexuality.

Disclaimer: Sadly, Henry is not mine. No infringement is intended.

Distribution: Share and share alike, just please let me know first.

Feedback: Fire at will.

Premise: What might have happened after Vicki completed the ritual to poison her life force and left Henry's condo.

* * *

The door slammed behind Vicki as she ran from his home, from him, from what she'd done--_to_ him--_for_ him--and all Henry could do was close his eyes. He should have been strong enough to stop her, strong enough to make her see the horror and the evil of her choice. But his strength was gone, seeping away with his blood across the smooth wooden floor.

She'd run him through. _She'd run him through_.

He'd called her his future. He'd been in love with her almost since the beginning, had waited for her with a patience he'd learned the hard way over four and a half centuries, had dreamt of the things he would show her and the life they would share. Nothing could have shocked him more than seeing her hand on the sword in his belly.

Until she'd rolled him to capture his blood in the ritual goblet and he'd realized…

Until she'd actually spoken the incantation and he'd _known_...

Until she'd drunk and fouled the brightness and the purity of her soul. Using him to do it. And he hadn't been able to stop her. He hadn't even slowed her down.

_Dear God in Heaven_.

Loss sliced through him, horror choked the breath from him and he gasped, but there was only the hot scent of his own blood and the thick, heavy stench of black magic. He reached blindly for Vicki, for air, arched, but Vicki was gone and all he felt was the heat of his blood as the wounds tore anew.

"Just a few more minutes, Henry," Coreen whispered, her hands pressing franticly at his belly. "_Please_, just hold on a few more minutes. Vicki can do this, I know she can, and I'm so sorry but I've got to give her a few more minutes."

Each word was like a blow, shattering his hopes for them, for everything he and Vicki would have been together, and Henry sagged beneath the stunning pain of them, lost and adrift and spinning in darkness.

Was this the end, then? Was this all he would amount to, after four hundred and fifty years?

Would he never tell Vicki he loved her?

The darkness parted, a glimmer of light drifting down over him, and he felt the sweetness of breath in his lungs and that first, soft instant of healing. He was _vampire_. He hadn't been strong enough to stop her, but he would still live. The wounds from the sword, at least, would heal.

The pain and the weakness of being stabbed ebbed, but the pain and the weakness of swift and unnatural healing rushed in to take its place. And with them came _hunger_.

Coreen leaned closer over him, one wrist now pressed tentatively to his mouth. His own heartbeat filled his ears, but over the sound that meant his life he could hear others--the panicked, frightened sound of her heart, the rushing of blood in her veins--her frantic whispers, begging him to drink, to take, to _live_.

But Vicki's words still hung in the air, wreathed in black magic and evil and death. If he was to live, then so be it. But he would not feed in that room while it still reeked of the darkness, and he would not feed from the girl who'd played a part in it.

He had just enough strength to push her wrist from his lips and turn his head away.

"Henry," Coreen breathed, and he heard the shock and the dismay and the pained disbelief in her voice. But fury and bitter, aching betrayal lanced suddenly through his heart and he couldn't bring himself to care. He blinked, staring blindly at the wall behind her as his body struggled to complete the healing and Coreen tried to explain.

"Henry,_please_," she hoarsely pleaded. "I know you're angry and you're hurt and you've every right to be but you've got to understand that Vicki wouldn't--she _couldn't_--take the risk that you might not be strong enough to kill this guy. Look, she doesn't have the words for it yet, I know, but you're a _huge_ part of her world now and even though she's never said it she'd be absolutely lost without you. Henry? Henry, please, you've _got_ to heal and that means you've got to feed and… Henry?"

Her words ate at him but they didn't soothe the anger or the pain and he had to move--he had to get out of there--he couldn't just lie there anymore and be used the way Vicki had used him. The anger sparked and wound round the hunger and he grabbed onto both of them with all of his slowly returning strength and rolled with agonizing effort to his side--away from Coreen, from the Grimoire--away from the sight and the stench of his blood pooled there on the floor, still dripping from his sword and the overturned goblet. He lay still again for long moments, hands fisted on the floor, his breath rasping in the tightness of his throat and the harsh silence that had fallen between them. He knew it when the bleeding finally stopped. He shifted, trembling, to hands and knees. Locked his elbows and let his head hang down as the wounds closed, front and back. But the hunger edged sharply toward obsession and finally Henry knew there would be no more healing until he fed.

He had to leave now. But he had enough strength. _He had to _have enough strength.

He crawled to the wall, knowing Coreen watched and yet utterly unashamed that he, the son of a king, _vampire_, needed to crawl. He'd loved Vicki, and she'd run him through, and Coreen _had helped her do it_. Let her watch the first evidence of their handiwork. It wouldn't be the last.

He used the small table and dragged himself back to his feet. He had to go. He couldn't be in that place stained with evil and darkness a moment longer. _But where would he go?_ Where _could_ he go to escape the utter weariness of his soul after this night's horrible work?

"Henry?" Coreen whispered.

He turned to the door, buttoning his jacket closed over the bloody tears in his shirt. He didn't look at Coreen. He couldn't. There was nothing of forgiveness or understanding in him. But some small, masochistic spark of curiosity made him pause.

"I'm sorry, Henry. But it was the only way we could find to save you."

If he'd had the strength he would have slapped her, screamed at her that_his life wasn't worth the price of Victoria Nelson's soul_.

"Lock up when you leave," he snarled instead, and lurched out of that place that had once been his sanctuary and his home. His blood and his very soul and the homes he'd made may not have felt the touch of sunlight in hundreds of years, but there had always been light and creativity and joy in him. However lonely or afraid or furious he'd ever been, whatever life he'd been forced to take, he'd always known that much about himself. But now he felt _dark_. And _dirty_. And _used_.

He couldn't walk fast enough to get away from it. He'd never be able to walk fast enough.

The knowledge weighed him down, but Henry concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other until he reached the elevator. He stabbed at the down button and slumped against the wall as he waited. He didn't have enough strength to drive. But he could deal with the doorman and a cab driver. When the doors slid smoothly open, Henry pressed the button for the lobby instead of the parking garage.

"Mister Fitzroy?" the doorman suspiciously prompted. "Are you all right?"

Such a tiresome, _nosy_ young fool. Henry turned to him with what power he could gather and pressed his will into the man's mind. "I look fine to you. I_am_ fine. You see nothing wrong."

The man suddenly smiled quite normally--as he never smiled at Henry. "Can I get your car, Mister Fitzroy, or would you like a cab this evening?"

"A cab, if you please," Henry managed to smile back. "I'll wait out front."

The night air was cool, and full of scents that didn't remind him of blood and black magic and betrayal, and he took a deep, grateful breath as it washed over him. But it couldn't wash the night's events away. Nothing could. He already carried them too deeply within him.

He stood there, carefully balanced, conserving his strength as he waited and tried to think what to do next. But when the cab pulled up, Henry could only stare dully at it. He still had no idea where to go.

The passenger window slid smoothly down, and the cabbie leaned over. "You Fitzroy?"

Fitzroy. So little of what he now was, and yet… The bastard son of a king. _Le roi_. Where everything had started. Long live the king. Or at least his vampire son.

"I'm Fitzroy," Henry sighed, and got into the cab.

"Where to, pal?"

Henry closed his eyes. He had to _think_. He couldn't handle any of the clubs he usually frequented. He needed someplace quiet tonight. But not one of the parks, where he'd have to do a lot of walking and couldn't be sure of finding anyone. Where, then? He certainly wasn't dressed well enough for the opera or any of his other, more artistic haunts, even if he knew which if any of them were open at the moment. Not to mention the idea of small talk was completely beyond him.

And suddenly it dawned on him that the _where_ was only half of the problem. Even if he could figure out a quiet place that was open and populated, none of his usual spots would work because he didn't want anyone he usually fed on to see him tonight. They all knew him as a prince. Powerful. Seductive. But tonight…

"Sweet Jesu," he whispered, so tired and dispirited that he just couldn't come up with anything at all.

"What was that?" the cabbie prompted, pulling out into traffic. "Saint Joseph's? You mean the one on Market?"

"No," Henry found himself saying, as blinding relief flooded him. "The one on Fifth." _Thank you, God, for showing me the way._

Saint Joseph's. It wasn't the biggest church in the city, or the most beautiful. Not by a long shot. It wasn't even in a particularly good neighborhood. But there was no more welcoming and comfortable a church anywhere within the city limits. With his own sanctuary shattered, the one he would find there was exactly what he needed.

But by the time Henry walked carefully up the church's broad, well worn steps, the hunger within him was ferocious, like a thing alive and apart, and he could no longer hide his trembling or disguise the need in his eyes. He paused and very nearly turned away, suddenly, desperately afraid of losing control and not wanting to bring the stain within him into that most hallowed of places.

"Forgive me," a soft, gentle voice intruded. "But you look like you could use a hand."

Henry swallowed hard, gathered the tattered remains of his strength and his power, and raised his head.

She looked young, maybe late twenties, but with one glance into the depths of her eyes, Henry revised his estimate upward by at least fifteen years. She was pretty, in a soft, gentle way that matched her voice. Not beautiful, but smiling and holding her hand out to him with a kindness and an open generosity that soothed the ache in his soul and dulled his hunger and had him taking her hand without another thought.

"Thank you," Henry managed. "I guess I do."

She only smiled again and tucked his hand into her arm, matching her pace to his as she helped him up the rest of the stairs and into the church. He stood there for a long moment, breathing deeply, feeling the peace of the place seep gently into his aching mind and body, heart and soul.

"Would you like to sit down?" she finally asked.

No prying, no judgments, just another offer of help. Henry found he couldn't lie to her. He couldn't even manage the white lies of small talk and social niceties. Tonight, after everything, he just couldn't do it. "I don't know what I want," he admitted.

She cocked her head, waiting, but when he didn't say anything else, she nodded in the direction of a pew. "I come here to sit and think. Somehow things are always clearer to me here. You can sit with me, if you like."

The hunger within him should have been raging. She was close--she was touching him--and he could hear her heartbeat and smell her delicate scent and see the smooth line of her bare neck and the pulse in her throat. But in this place, with this sweetly generous stranger, the hunger had grown unexpectedly quiet. He had some time. Wordlessly Henry nodded and slid into the pew next to her.

She didn't kneel or close her eyes to pray, she simply sat back in the pew, hands in her lap, and let her eyes roam the small, plain church. Henry found he didn't really want to pray, either. He just didn't have the words. Instead he closed his eyes and let himself bask in the holy peace of Saint Joseph's.

The silence stretched between them, the minutes growing into nearly an hour there at that mildly uncomfortable pew as a handful of people came and went around them, and yet the silence was warm and soothing, her presence next to him a quiet comfort, and Henry didn't mind at all. He could have sat there all night. Except the hunger and his need finally rose up again and flared and Henry realized they weren't going to wait that much longer. He was out of time after all.

She felt the shudder that wracked him. Even with his eyes closed, he knew she'd turned to look at him. Still, even then, she didn't pry. She simply took his hand in hers once more, her fingers threading gently through his.

That silent gesture of support unlocked all of the horrified rage and the pain and the bitter betrayal inside him and Henry opened his eyes and faced her and let her see it all. His power was there, he knew she could see that as clearly as she could see everything else, but he didn't use it. He couldn't. What he needed most tonight--even more than the blood--was simple, clean honesty, freely given and received.

"I need you," he said.

She took a long, deep breath. "All right. What can I do?"

Somehow he wasn't surprized by her answer. But Henry shook his head. "First tell me what I can do for you."

"For me?" she blinked at him.

"For you," he softly repeated. "Let me guess--you're the one everyone else always leans on, right?"

She shrugged uncomfortably. "They do what they can. It's just that I can do more."

Henry let his power burn brightly in his eyes for a long, breathless moment, let it fill his voice when he spoke. "As can I."

She stared at him, and he felt her heartbeat quicken with intoxicating intensity. "Who are you?"

"My name is Henry. I have been many, many things, but tonight… Tonight I'm just someone who's been…" Betrayed? Used? Blooded? _Skewered?_ His throat tightened. "Hurt."

"So you came to church."

It was a statement, not a question, but Henry nodded anyway.

Her jaw tightened, a storm of emotion suddenly flashing in her eyes, and finally something slipped out past her silence and her calmness. "Then can _you_ tell me why?" she blurted, rawly.

"Why what?"

"Why do people disappoint you?" she rasped, and looked away. "Why do they think they know better than you? Why do they _leave_?"

Her questions razored through him and Henry needed a long, slow breath. Her heartbeat was loud in his ears, the pain and the need in her simply extraordinary. He didn't know if he could handle hers on top of his own. He was already exhausted. But maybe that wasn't the way to think of this. Maybe, if he could answer her questions, he could answer his own as well.

Her grip on his hand had become painful. Henry brought their joined hands to his mouth and pressed a gentle kiss to her fingers and gave her the only answers he had after more than four centuries. "Sometimes it's because they love us, but they're afraid. And sometimes… it's because they don't love us. Not really."

"How do you know the difference?" she whispered.

"That I couldn't tell you," he admitted, rubbing the back of her hand against his cheek, needing the creature comfort himself, offering it to her. "I'm not even really sure that it matters."

She laughed, but it was a sharp, unhappy sound. "Father Michael says I should forgive them."

He stilled, what was left of his heart finally breaking, the fear and the horror and the utter hatred of the darkness Vicki had taken into herself for him swelling inside him until he could barely breathe with it. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to do that. No matter how much she may love me. Or how much I love her."

She was silent for a long moment, considering.

"I'm sorry," she finally, softly said.

"It wasn't your fault," he replied, his voice firm. "Any more than it was mine. We don't make other people's choices for them."

"Maybe. I don't know any more. I guess I just want…" She turned back to him. "Henry?"

He looked at her, finally seeing a need in her that matched his own, and waited.

"It's not all bad, when people need you. Sometimes it feels like that's the only reason we're all still breathing. So will you tell me, now, what I can do for you?"

His hunger burned brightly at everything her words implied, but Henry kept it firmly locked inside. "Take a walk with me?"

"Can I ask to where?"

"Wherever you want."

"But you…"

"I'll be fine," he soothed the concern in her.

"You're sure?"

He smiled for her. "As long as you don't want to walk half way across the city."

She watched him for a long moment, but he thought she'd made her decision almost as long ago as he'd made his. Henry reached to gently brush a long, dark strand of her hair back behind her ear, then let his fingertips trail lightly down the soft, warm skin of her neck, lingering at the pounding pulse point. She shivered, gasping, and he felt his body tighten with the duality of his need for her.

"I don't even know your name," he murmured.

She had to clear her throat. "Julia."

He raised his eyes back to the warm depths of hers. "May I walk you home, Julia?"

This time, she didn't hesitate. "I'd like that, Henry. Very much."

They were both so tired, already spent, but he gave her every pleasure he could think of, sending her so deeply into the secrets of her body that she never noticed the blood he took and the life she gave back to him. But she knew the comfort he took in her warmth and her gentle touch, the release he found in her arms and in her body. It was all he could give now.

Victoria had taken the rest. He didn't know if he'd ever be able to give anyone else what he'd given to her. What she'd recklessly shattered and sent into darkness.

He woke Julia one last time, because he didn't want to disappear in the night and give her the chance to think less of either one of them. And because he selfishly wanted one last time to feel her mouth on his skin, to watch her eyes glaze when he touched her, to feel her body arch beneath his when he entered her, to hear the way she said his name when he pushed her over the edge and pleasure finally claimed her. To taste the sweetness of her lips and her life's blood. To drive Victoria and her betrayal from his mind and heart, if only for a little while.

Julia pulled the covers up around her and watched him dress, raised her mouth for a final kiss and let her hand slide down to his as he slowly backed away. Henry kissed her fingers, his eyes warm and so incredibly grateful on hers, and then he left her. But he'd marked her in every way he could. Good things were going to start happening to her. He'd make sure of it. He owed her that and more for helping him regain so much of himself.

The penthouse was empty when he finally returned. The Grimoire was in its place on the shelf. His sword was in its rack, clean and gleaming, and only he and one of those CSI teams would know that his blood had seeped down between the floor boards, that Coreen hadn't gotten it all. The smells of disinfectant and whatever cleaners she'd used were ripe. But they couldn't hide the lingering stench of black magic, of his fear and his horror.

Almost an hour until dawn, but Henry went into his bedroom and closed the door on the rest of his suite and everything it now held that should never have been. His sanctuary and his trust had been violated. The future he'd been hoping for was gone.

Vicki had used black magic, had opened herself and Coreen to an evil she refused to understand. And she'd used him to do it. Try as he might, he simply couldn't forgive her. Not for any of it. Not even--especially--because she'd done it all for him.

When dawn finally claimed him, Henry Fitzroy was grateful for oblivion.

* * *

_This story now continues in Bridges._


End file.
